Champs on repeat:
A girl can be passed out and naked.
She can walk down the street naked.
She can be wearing garish red polish on her toe nails, a skirt so short I prefer to call them “skelts” (Skirt-cross-belt), and donning fishnets and high heels.
She can be warm and friendly to a point that you consider her to be flirting.
Not one of these instances affords any man a right to sexually harass her, to say “She was asking for it”, to reinterpret her “No” as “Yes”, or her “Stop” as “I’m enjoying this”.
A woman’s decision. Her choices. Are to be respected and listened to. (well, unless they go against your human rights).
This is why I’m wearing a skirt today and am off to march my little legs from the Jo’burg Gallery to the Noord Street Taxi Rank.
And speaking of consenting romps en pomps. With The Boy gone for a whole 3 days now, I suddenly have lots of nervous energy that is completely confused on what to do with itself. After a full day’s stressful work, I got home and suddenly had vacuumed my car, wiped and gleamed it, washed it. Then I cleaned my room. Fixed up some flowers. Washed my hair. And yoga’d the rest of the energy out. All before the hour of Eight p.m. And I ended off the night with finishing up some work.
My god. I should have done this relationship thing years ago! Where the guy has to disappear for months at a time.
If I had, I bet I would have had the motivation and energy to, at the very least, given old Ban Ki-moon a run for his global-tax-payers’ dollar in last year's SG run.